Violet (Flower Trilogy) (26 page)

A frown creased Lily’s smooth young forehead.

‘‘These parts have names?’’

‘‘Of course they do, goose.’’ Rose leaned in closer.

‘‘Go on.’’

‘‘ ‘The clitoris is a substance in the upper part of the division where the two wings concur, and is the seat of womanly pleasure, being like a yard—’ ’’

‘‘A yard?’’ Lily asked.

‘‘That’s what they call a man’s . . .’’

‘‘Oh. That.’’ Her blue eyes widened. ‘‘ ’Tis not actually a
yard
, is it? I mean, when it’s—’’

‘‘Erect?’’ Judging from the single breathy word, Rose seemed to be lacking her customary aplomb.

‘‘Good God, I hope not. It couldn’t be. ’Tis not really a yard, Violet, is it?’’

‘‘Why do you think I would know?’’ But her face heated as she remembered feeling that hardness. ‘‘No, of course it isn’t,’’ she said as matter-of-factly as she could manage. ‘‘ ’Twould not fit, would it? And it would show, do you not think? When men just walked around? I am certain ’tis not a yard.’’

‘‘Probably men call it that because they
wish
it were a yard,’’ Rose said dryly.

Even Lily giggled at that.

Violet blinked hard and continued reading. ‘‘ ‘The clitoris . . . being like a yard in situation, substance, composition and erection, growing sometimes out of the body an inch, but that never happens except through extreme lust.’ ’’

Rose harrumphed. ‘‘So a man gets a yard and we get an inch.’’

‘‘Oh, Rose,’’ Violet groaned.

‘‘Keep reading,’’ Lily said.

‘‘All right.’’ Violet flashed Rose a look of warning.

‘‘ ‘By the neck of the womb is the channel which receives the yard like a sheath, and that it may be better dilated for the pleasure of procreation, in this concavity are diverse folds, wrinkled like an expanded rose.’ ’’

‘‘A rose?’’ Rose harrumphed again. ‘‘That ‘concavity’ looks nothing like Father’s flowers.’’ When her sisters glared at her, she bristled. ‘‘Well, it doesn’t.

I’ve looked. With a mirror.’’ She narrowed her gaze.

‘‘Don’t tell me you haven’t.’’

Violet just cleared her throat. ‘‘ ‘The hymen, or claustrum virginale, is that which closes the neck of the womb relating to virginity, broken in the first copulation. And commonly, when broken in copulation, or by any other accident, a small quantity of blood flows from it, attended with some little pain.’ ’’

Silence descended on the summerhouse.

‘‘Little pain,’’ Lily whispered finally. ‘‘That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?’’

‘‘I’m sure it’s not,’’ Violet said firmly. But they all took a deep breath in unison.

‘‘All right, then.’’ Violet turned the page. ‘‘Listen to this.’’ She swallowed. ‘‘ ‘There are many veins and arteries passing into the womb, dilated for its better taking hold of the yard, there being great heat required in such motions, which become more intense in the act of friction, and consumes a considerable quantity of moisture, which being expunged in the time of copulation, greatly delights the woman.’ ’’

‘‘Greatly delights the woman,’’ Rose breathed.

‘‘Gemini. We
have
to get married. Soon.’’

Suddenly they heard a jaunty tune being hummed outside. ‘‘Oh, God!’’ Lily exclaimed, ‘‘ ’Tis Mum!’’

Leaping up, she ran for the door and jerked it open, Rose at her heels. The two of them pushed through at the same time, almost stumbling over one another.

‘‘Good afternoon, Mum,’’ Rose said. ‘‘Come along, Lily, Father is waiting.’’

‘‘For what?’’ Mum asked, frowning at Violet as her younger daughters practically trampled her and ran for the gardens.

Shrugging, Violet snapped the book closed and set it facedown on the bench. ‘‘What are you doing out here?’’

Unlike Father, Mum avoided the outdoors, especially on a nice, sunny day like this one. She worried for her creamy complexion. Now she was wearing a big straw hat and carrying a basket over her arm, filled with stale bread. ‘‘I thought I’d just take some air,’’

she said. ‘‘And feed the swans.’’

When Violet stood, her spectacles tumbled from her lap to the red-brick floor. She bent to retrieve them, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice the book on the bench. ‘‘Shall I come with you?’’

‘‘That would be lovely.’’

She slipped the frames on her face, and they crossed the wide, green lawn to the river. A multitude of daisies sprouted among the grass; God forbid Joseph Ashcroft leave any part of his land free of flowers.

Chrystabel bent to pick one as they went. She twirled the white and yellow posy in her fingers. ‘‘Is the book you were reading interesting?’’

Egad, she’d noticed.

‘‘ ’Tis philosophy.’’ Well, it was. In a sense.

‘‘What is it called?’’

‘‘Um . . .’’ Violet felt her face heat, but the title certainly wasn’t a giveaway. ‘‘
Aristotle’s Masterpiece
.’’

Stepping onto the bridge, her mother threw her an arch look. ‘‘And is it?’’

Her heart stuttered. ‘‘Is it what?’’

‘‘A masterpiece.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ Halfway across the bridge, Violet stopped and turned to the rail. She focused out over the river.

‘‘ ’Tis Aristotle, you know. I’m sure you’ve heard me jabber enough about him.’’ She reached into her mother’s basket and broke off a bit of bread, tossing it out to the lone swan nearby. ‘‘I don’t expect you’d find it very interesting.’’

‘‘You might be surprised.’’

Violet wondered what her mother meant, especially considering the tone of her voice, but she didn’t want to ask. She had a feeling she was better off not knowing.

More swans glided near, and Chrystabel tossed a few crumbs. ‘‘You miss him, don’t you?’’

Him.
Mum had to mean Ford. But Violet had been careful to never show any outward interest, so how could she know?

‘‘Miss whom?’’ she asked.

‘‘Lord Lakefield, of course. Don’t be coy, Violet.

For weeks you saw him every day, but now that Jewel is gone, you have no excuse to visit. I know you’re fond of him.’’

‘‘He’s a nice man,’’ Violet said carefully.

‘‘You don’t allow a man to kiss you just because he’s nice.’’

Violet’s jaw dropped open. She closed it, along with her eyes, then opened them and turned to her mother.

‘‘Wherever did you get the idea he kissed me?’’

‘‘One of your sisters.’’ Chrystabel held up a hand.

‘‘No, I’ll not tell you which one, because it doesn’t really matter.’’

‘‘It matters to me! ’Twas Rose, wasn’t it?’’

‘‘I’ll not be saying. Because it
doesn’t
matter. ’Tis acceptable to experiment. Do you imagine I never kissed your father before we married?’’

Despite her outrage, Violet had to bite back a smile.

Mum had done more than kiss Father. Violet knew she’d been born impossibly ‘‘early’’—the girls had calculated the dates years ago.

But that was beside the point. ‘‘I’m not marrying him, Mum.’’

Below them, the swans squawked, and Chrystabel broke off more bread. ‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘Well, for one thing, he hasn’t asked me. And for another, I wouldn’t agree if he did.’’

‘‘Can you explain why?’’

‘‘Why?’’ To avoid meeting her mother’s eyes, Violet took a hunk of bread and faced the graceful white birds. ‘‘Why should I? With or without my spectacles, I’m not blind. I know I’m no beauty. If he asked for my hand, ’twould only be to get his own hands on my ten thousand pounds—God knows he needs it, as Rose has pointed out countless times. And I won’t marry for less than true love, Mum. I . . . I suspect marriage is not all it’s purported to be, anyway.’’

She wished she could still believe that with the fervor she’d once had. But she was no longer quite so sure, since reading the
Masterpiece
. Now, late at night, she lay in bed alone, wishing the feel of the sheets on her body were the feel of a man’s hands instead. Wondering if the sensations were as wonderful as the
Masterpiece
claimed.

And Ford’s kisses had done nothing to convince her differently.
Great heat . . . in the act of friction . . .

greatly delights the woman.

Her very limited experience notwithstanding, she could believe it.

Chrystabel threw the last of her crumbs to the swans. ‘‘I see.’’

Violet didn’t care for the way Mum had said that.

Tossing the rest of her own crumbs, she turned to face her. ‘‘You’re not going to try to match me up with him, are you? Because—’’

‘‘Heavens, no! I want you to be happy, Violet. Married or not—whatever makes you happy.’’

Mum sounded sincere. But on the way back to the house, Violet couldn’t help but wonder.

Chrystabel loved the nighttimes.

In the quiet of the master chamber, her dear Joseph could always hear her. It didn’t quite make sense, which was why she sometimes teasingly accused him of selective listening. But he said it had to do with competing sounds. That during the daytime, there were noises, always noises: the servants going about their work, the animals in the fields, birds in the skies, dishes and silverware at mealtimes, and children talking all at once. He claimed that with more than one sound, he couldn’t distinguish any of them.

But within the solid, thick walls of their room, the nighttimes were blessedly quiet. And he also claimed, always, that her voice was the one out of all that he could hear most easily, if only there were no competing sounds. The perfect pitch.

That part
did
make sense to her. Because they’d always, always been perfect together.

But now he had nodded off, when she’d expressly asked him not to. She leaned over the bed and poked him. ‘‘I told you to stay awake.’’

Rolling over, he yawned and forced open his eyes.

‘‘Has Violet fallen asleep yet?’’

‘‘Yes. Finally.’’ She tapped the book she’d just placed on her night table. ‘‘I got it.’’

‘‘What?’’ He rubbed his face, then struggled up onto his elbows to see better. ‘‘What in blazes is this all about?’’

Before answering, she lifted the covers and slid languidly between the sheets. When she spoke, her voice was low and seductive. ‘‘
Aristotle’s Masterpiece.
’’

‘‘Holy Christ. The marriage manual?’’ His face and tone both radiated his shock. ‘‘Where the hell would Violet get such a thing?’’

‘‘I haven’t the slightest idea, but I’m glad.’’

‘‘Glad?’’

‘‘Don’t be such a prude, Joseph. I know this book is supposed to be scandalous, but frankly, I hope she reads it from cover to cover.’’

She saw no need to mention that their other daughters were reading it as well. Dear Joseph wasn’t always as open-minded as she. Often he needed some time and guidance to come around to her thinking.

She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. ‘‘If Violet finds the book stimulating enough, perhaps it will make her give up this ridiculous idea that she doesn’t want to be married.’’ Deliberately, she wiggled closer to her husband. He put an arm around her, drawing her against his warm body, and she looked up at him coquettishly. ‘‘Marriage has its benefits, darling, would you not agree?’’

He gave her a long, slow kiss before he answered, the sort that had been making her senses spin from the very day they met. ‘‘Perhaps,’’ he allowed huskily,

‘‘if you put it that way.’’

She nodded her woozy head. ‘‘ ’Tis not as though we were saints before we wed. Violet is about to turn one-and-twenty, a woman grown.’’ At only one-and-forty herself, Chrystabel could well remember a young woman’s naı¨vete´. ‘‘ ’Twill do her good to know a bit of something before she lands in her marriage bed.

And this book might be our only hope of ever getting her there.’’

‘‘Hmmph.’’ Narrowing those green eyes that always made her melt, he rubbed his chin. ‘‘As Violet’s father, I believe it is my responsibility to approve her reading matter.’’ He reached across her body toward the book. ‘‘Let me see it.’’

‘‘I was hoping we could read it together. It could be . . . what did I call it?’’ She licked her lips.

‘‘Stimulating.’’

‘‘Stimulating.’’ A slow grin spread on his face.

‘‘Now, Chrysanthemum, we’ve never needed outside stimulation. But I suppose ’twould not hurt to have a look. For curiosity’s sake.’’

As he opened the book, she snuggled happily under his arm. ‘‘For curiosity’s sake, of course.’’

An impatient knock came at the laboratory door before Hilda’s voice called through it. ‘‘Will you be wanting breakfast, milord?’’

Ford blinked and then carefully, reverently, set aside his watch. Still in somewhat of a daze, he rose and went to admit her. ‘‘Is it morning?’’

His housekeeper’s hands fisted on her hips. ‘‘Have you not bothered to look out the window lately?’’

He turned to the one right over where he had been working. The sky was blue. Birds were chirping, the perfect accompaniment for a beautiful, sunny day.

‘‘Did you stay up all night again?’’ Hilda demanded.

‘‘What is it with the questions?’’ Ford shook his head, refusing to let her disapproval ruin his ebullient mood. ‘‘Come, I have something to show you.’’

She followed him to his workbench, weaving around a water bath and flicking her dust rag as she went. ‘‘If you’d let me in here to clean once in a while, this wouldn’t be such a skimble-skamble mess.’’

Accustomed to her lectures, he ignored this one and reached for his watch. ‘‘Here it is,’’ he said with a broad smile. ‘‘I’m finished.’’

‘‘ ’Tis very nice.’’ She raised a glass funnel and wiped it off.

Nonplussed, he stared at her. ‘‘I know ’tis not fancy, but do you see here? ’Tis different from other watches. It has a minute hand, like a clock. So you’ll not have to guess how far into the hour by just the single hand.’’

‘‘Well, that is very nice, my lord.’’ She smiled, but her faded blue eyes didn’t sparkle with the excitement he was seeking. ‘‘Although you have clocks enough around here for me to tell the time, I expect for some this will be very convenient.’’ She set down the funnel and glanced around the attic, sighing at the clutter and dust. ‘‘Will you be wanting breakfast now, then?’’

He was silent a minute, then mutely ordered himself to shrug off the disappointment. ‘‘Breakfast would be nice. I’ll be down shortly.’’